‘That would have been very unjust to you,’ said Adela in a low regular voice.  ’I could only have done that if—­if I had believed it.’

‘You don’t altogether believe it, then?’

She looked at him with full eyes and made answer: 

‘You are my husband.’

It echoed in his ears; not to many men does it fall to hear those words so spoken.  Another would have flung himself at her feet and prayed to her.  Mutimer only felt a vast relief, mingled with gratitude.  The man all but flattered himself that she had done him justice.

‘Well, you are quite right,’ he spoke.  ’It isn’t true, and if you knew this woman you would understand the whole affair.  I dare say you can gather a good deal from the way she writes.  It’s true enough that I was engaged to her sister, but it was broken off before I knew you, and for the reasons she says here.  I’m not going to talk to you about things of that kind; I dare say you wouldn’t care to hear them.  Of course she says I made it all up.  Do you think I’m the kind of man to do that?’

Perhaps she did not know that she was gazing at him.  The question interrupted her in a train of thought which was going on in her mind even while she listened.  She was asking herself why, when they were in London, he had objected to a meeting between her and his mother.  He had said his mother was a crotchety old woman who could not make up her mind to the changed circumstances, and was intensely prejudiced against women above her own class.  Was that a very convincing description?  She had accepted it at the time, but now, after reading this letter—?  But could any man speak with that voice and that look, and lie?  Her agitation grew intolerable.  Answer she must; could she, could she say ‘No’ with truth?  Answer she must, for he waited.  In the agony of striving for voice there came upon her once more that dizziness of the morning, but in a more severe form.  She struggled, felt her breath failing, tried to rise, and fell back unconscious.

At the same time Alice was sitting in the drawing-room, in conversation with Mr. Willis Rodman.  ’Arry having been invited for this evening, Rodman was asked with him, as had been the case before.  ’Arry was at present amusing himself in the stables, exchanging sentiments with the groom.  Rodman sat near Alice, or rather he knelt upon a chair, so that at any moment he could assume a standing attitude before her.  He talked in a low voice.

‘You’ll come out to-night?’

‘No, not to-night.  You must speak to him to-night.’

Rodman mused.

‘Why shouldn’t you?’ resumed the girl eagerly, in a tone as unlike that she used to Mr. Keene as well could be.  She was in earnest; her eyes never moved from her companion’s face; her lips trembled.  ’Why should you put it off?  I can’t see why we keep it a secret.  Dick can’t have a word to say against it; you know he can’t.  Tell him to-night after dinner.  Do! do!’